This 'ere Hands
by Varmint
Summary: Vigilante was a wounded man. His scars ran deep. And he could only blame the Thanagarians for all of his pain. But after he survives a hawk ambush with the help of Hawk Girl herself, he finds himself in deep thought. Then, a small talk with that very woman leads him to one very special realization. Set after Hunter's Moon. My take on the torture Greg received from the Thanagarians.
_"Filthy hawks caught me. Locked me up in a tiny cell. Humiliated me."_

The words still reverberated around in his mind, even hours after he had been taken to the med bay to get checked out by the docs.

Shayera...had not deserved his cruel words. He had not been able to apologize afterwards. Not even on the flight back.

And he felt terrible for it.

But he still did not feel as though he could ever trust the Thanagarian. Her people had put him through the worst type of torture he had ever encountered in his life. And every single time he looked at her, he was reminded of that terrible time in his life.

When he had gotten caught as part of the resistance fighters by the hawks, he had expected some type of fail safes of resistance to keep him from inciting riots amongst prisoners. Back then, he still had no idea what he would be put through. He had underestimated the Thanagarian's cruelty. Had simply assumed they wouldn't be any worse than the angered cops he had met back when he was still a young buck.

If there was one thing Greg Saunders had always been proud of, it was his voice. Be it singing or giving a speech, Greg had always had a special gift that came with his voice. He had never fully understood it, either, but always counted himself lucky because of how well his speeches were received. Maybe it was the way he carried himself with such comfortable ease. Or, perhaps it was the way he spoke with the correct amount of passion that didn't make people uncomfortable. Heck, maybe it was just how deep and soothing his voice itself was!

Whatever it happened to be, Greg didn't know. But he always counted himself lucky whenever he began to speak because he noticed just how many people tuned into listen. No matter where he was or what message he happened to be conveying, there were always eyes on him and eager ears listening.

Maybe it was because of this very gift that the Thanagarians decided to torture him so terribly. Maybe he had been targeted not from the beginning, but instead after he had managed to round up a group of prisoners to try and escape the damned prison. Before he had riled them up, his time in the prison had not been unbearable. Afterwards, though... Just thinking about everything that had happened after the small riot he created made his body begin to ache with pains he should have gotten over quite some time ago.

He shut his eyes as the scars on his back began to burn him once more. Quite frankly, even though today's energy blast to the leg ached horribly, that was nothing compared to what he felt from his older he truly regretted having survived the torture. There were days so horrible that he caught himself wondering just what would happen if he allowed on the many villains or petty criminals he faced to just off him. There were days that were so hard for him to deal with his reality that he locked himself up in his ranch with his fully stocked bar and just tried to _forget_.

Unfortunately for him, the alcohol tactic never got him anywhere but always managed to leave a brutal hangover.

Of course, for every bad day, there was a good day. He had experienced enough good in the world to make him proud of what he did and how he put his life on the line ever day. But those good days where he didn't think not even once on the scars given to him by the Thanagarians... Well... Those were a rarity.

But he couldn't exaggerate. The bad days were now just as rare as the good days. He had managed to grow so used to his pain and somehow found a way to ignore as a mechanism of coping that his bad days didn't occur as often as they had when he first left the prison camps. Now most of the time his days were a monotone mix of good and bad that allowed him to function with a smile on his face and a lightness about his shoulders most seemed to look up to.

A grim frown found its way onto the cowboy's face as he thought about how others might perceive him, full face able to be seen because he had bunched up his bandanna around his neck a few minutes after he had been told he'd be stuck on bed rest for at least the rest of the night.

It always hurt him to think. Thinking always led to remembering. And sorting through his memories had never been a particularly pleasant experience.

His train of thought was interrupted by a nurse knocking softly and appearing through the door with a soft smile on her face.

"Excuse me, Mr. Vigilante. But you have a visitor." She informed him, only to step aside and leave before he could tell her he did not want anyone in the room at the moment.

Honestly, he was surprised to see who it was. He had expected her to hate him just as much as he hated her race.

"Shayera." He greeted with a slight tip of his head, not raising his hand to tip his hat because it rested comfortably on one of the plastic chairs to his left. "Surprised ta see you here."

The red haired woman smirked softly at him as she crossed her arms over her chest, leaning on the wall to her right, "Really, cowboy? It hurts me to know you didn't expect any visitors."

Inside his head, he told her that he didn't _want_ any visitors, no matter who they were or what they brought. He said that he didn't feel like talking with anyone and just wanted to wallow in his own sadness for a while before he felt the need to smile at everyone he came across yet again. Inside his head, he had a full conversation with the woman about how he just wanted to be left alone.

But in real life? Well, in reality the cowboy only nodded softly and looked away from the woman and over towards his hat on the chair. He didn't say another word and kept quiet, knowing that maybe it would be best to not say anything that might get him into further trouble with the Thanagarian. He couldn't really trust his mouth when it came to the hawks.

A beat passed in which no one moved and Greg entertained the thought of Shayera leaving then and there to not return. But instead of doing that, the woman made her way over to his bedside and sat down on the chair beside the one that housed his hat and from the determined gleam in her eyes, Greg knew he was in for something. What that something was, he wasn't sure. He just knew he was in for it.

"Ma'am?"

"You are one of the few beings in existence I've seen able to take a Thanagarian energy blast with barely even a flinch. Yet... You have no superpowers?" Her emerald green eyes spoke of curiosity, not persecution. She wanted to know about him. Not attempt to interrogate him.

Greg nodded with a heavy sigh, "One hundred percent real human being. No super powers fer this feller."

He was not sure if his answer was perceived as the correct one by Shayera because the woman leaned back in her chair with an unidentifiable sound from her mouth. It might have been a gasp, scoff, or snort, but Greg wasn't too sure about that. Nor was he sure about why she had made that noise.

Because she seemed to be taking her time thinking over something, Greg decided to look away from her and over to the other side of the small room, where his guns and belt hung from a hook on the wall. Those guns had been with him for quite some time. They had seen almost as much heartache and misery as he had.

It was almost poetic in a way, his guns and he. Maybe those revolvers were like a metaphor to his life. Antiquated, sturdy, long lasting, and helpful in only the most desperate of situations. Because just as he knew that guns weren't perceived as the best weapon of choice for a hero, he also knew that a cowboy wasn't seen as the best role model for children to have nowadays.

"Vig... Not many people can take a shot like that and live to tell the tale."

His thoughts were derailed once more. This time, Greg looked away from his guns over to Shayera to find the woman looking at him with a type of softness in her eyes that seemed extremely misplaced. Heck, the empathy radiating from the woman seemed completely out of place for a filthy ha- Shayera wasn't a filthy hawk. She hadn't done anything directly to him. Yet, he could not stop himself from remembering what her people did whenever he saw her.

This piece of information she gave him made the man nod softly, then he looked away from her once more as he spoke up.

"Let's just say that ain't the first time I've been licked by that type of weapon." He answered softly, looking away from the woman.

"Vigilante... I..." She was at a loss for words. Greg could understand that. Her people were monsters at the core. Not many had expected that.

"You don't have to say nothing, Haw-" He caught himself then, and closed his eyes tightly. " _Shayera_."

The name took a lot out of him. He wasn't completely sure why it hurt so much to call her by her real name. Maybe it had to do with the fact that by giving her a name, he was distinguishing her from the rest of the hawks. By admitting she was an individual he was, in a way, almost exonerating her of her people's crimes. Or maybe he had difficulty using her name because he uttered it for once without any hate guiding it.

Silence reigned over them once more after this. Greg did not want to speak any more and hoped that the woman would just leave him for the time being. But Shayera seemed to be deep in thought and unlikely to leave any time soon.

After some five minutes, she spoke up once more. "You said you were locked up by my people. And now I know that you've been hit by an energy blast before... Just _what_ did they do to you?"

That question. Many had asked him. Most that knew him well enough knew to never ask it. Those that knew he had been part of the rebellion but didn't know him as a person too well always seemed curious as to what 'war stories' he might have acquired from his fighting against the hawks.

But he had no war stories to tell. In fact, he had no stories at all from his time with the hawks. All he had were marred scars and haunting memories.

"That ain't a question I'm likely ta answer." His words were clipped and his body stiff.

This was just one hell of a day, wasn't it? Bed rest and remembering his time with the hawks.

"Vig, I have a right to know what crimes my-"

"Your people, Hawk Girl?" He interrupted with a bite, turning now to face the woman to glare at her. "Could you just decide on a side already? Are you or are you _not_ part of the Thanagarian bastards? 'Cause I'm gettin' real tired of tryin' to see you as more than just another filthy hawk."

Immediately she silenced and immediately Greg felt horrible. He knew this hadn't been her fault. She had done nothing to him. And there was no reason for him to insult her so horridly.

With another heavy sigh, the man raised his hand up to his head and passed it through his hair. "I... I'm sorry... That was rude o' me. I shouldn't have allowed my temper to get the best of me."

Shayera seemed to hesitate over her answer for a moment, then the woman breathed out sharply with a shake of her head. "I should be the one apologizing. I know the horrors war can unleash. I know how devastating it can be. And I know how unlikely it is for someone to talk about the horrors that they had experienced. I'm sorry for pushing you."

The words were heartfelt, he could admit that. But just because she was being kind to him now did not mean he would open his heart. Nor did it mean he would have to answer her.

He didn't comment on how he hadn't lived through a war and instead went through the hell that was a horrible occupation. Nor did he try to tell her that she clearly knew nothing about his situation if she carelessly compared it to yet another war. Instead, he only thanked her softly and said no more.

Silence reigned once more and all Greg really wanted to do at the moment was just close his eyes for a while. But not to sleep. His dreams would only be nightmares at this point. But if he could just rest his eyes for a moment, he might be able to get through whatever it was that Shayera wanted him to do.

"But, Vigilante-"

Of course she would insist. She was a hawk, after all. A bull headed species if Greg ever did meet one.

"Darling," He interrupted in a soft voice this time, sounding more tired than annoyed, "Have you ever wondered just why I keep my past experiences to myself?"

Now the woman sat up and seemed to scoot closer in her chair to him, "But you're always so happy, Vigilante... I don't understand how you are able to convince everybody you're okay when you're clearly still hurting-"

"I appreciate the concern, ma'am." The cowboy raised his hand in a stop motion, then shook his head once more. "But I've managed to survive long enough without speaking 'bout my hardships. I think I'll be okay if I continue with that."

"I just don't see how someone can live a fully functioning life with so much baggage."

The caring words managed to find their way into his heart and Greg's face became hard and he looked away from the woman at that moment, his whole mood dropping even further.

"No one ever said it was fully functioning, ma'am." His voice was coarse and his throat strained to speak. "Why do you seem so keen on getting me to open up, Shayera? You didn't care at all before."

Shayera's eyes narrowed and she waved her hand, "Because I had no idea my people had hurt you, Vigilante!" Then she motioned to herself, eyes shining with inner turmoil that Greg could readily understand. "And they got to you because of _me_."

How could he answer?

Deep inside of his soul, Greg knew that he blamed Shayera for everything that had happened to him. But just because it came from his soul didn't mean the feeling was right. The woman had done nothing other than serve her people. She had never placed a finger on him.

It was hard to admit, but he knew that Shayera had nothing to do with what happened. And this was why his inner conflict was so dangerous. Because even though he knew that he was wrong in his hate, he still hated her. Even though he knew he had no reason to hate Shayera, he still wanted to see her strung up with the rest of the hawk bastards. And, not only that, he wanted to forgive her for everything.

"Listen to me now, darling, and listen well."

Shayera's eyes widened slightly when the man began to sit up in the bed. He even threw his covers off and moved his legs so he was seated on the edge of the bed, right in front of her face. The man moved his hands so they were cupping her own, then he brought them up so they were in between both their faces.

"You see these hands? Both yours and mine?" He asked her, but did not wait for her to answer. "We ain't from the same race. Still our hands are jagged and calloused. You see how rough mine are? I know you know how rough yours are too."

"Vig... What are you doing?"

"Giving you a small lesson in understanding." He looked up at Shayera's green eyes now, his own boring into hers. "We are from two different races, Shayera. Yet we have an idea of what heartache and pain is, don't we? Look at these hands, Shayera, really look... Do you see there ain't too much difference when we compared them to one another?"

The woman's eyes never left Greg's own as she nodded.

"You know you're one tough son of a gun, right?" He asked her, releasing her hands. "You know yourself very well; Know you'd never openly admit ta a problem you could fix on your own... If our hands are so alike- so jagged and ruined- why would you think our choices aren't?"

He may have hated her people... But that didn't mean he would have to hate her for the rest of his days.

His mind could cope with the pain he went through because of the hawks. His body had managed to heal itself, however scarred and tarnished it may be. And his heart was slowly beginning to open itself up again when it came to his friends. Just because the hawks had taken away a good part of his life didn't mean he _needed_ to keep a grudge against Shayera.

And from the way she came in here with her shoulders drooping as if she had the world on her shoulders, maybe giving her some advice at the same time he reminded himself of it wouldn't be too bad.

"These hands are workin' hands, ma'am. They're fightin' hands. They're _hurtin'_ hands. You didn't come in here for me." She moved as if she wanted to refute that, but Greg stopped her once more. He happened to do that a lot during this encounter. "You came in here for you. You came seeking closure. But I can't give you that." With this, he shook his head and smiled at her softly, "What your people did to me... It ain't on your head. Don't let that weight rest on your shoulders. Don't let it consume you like it has me."

Then he placed one hand on her shoulder and squeezed it tightly. "What you came in here for ain't going ta be found here. Not with me. It'll be found within yourself."

He kept his hand there for a beat, then took it back and picked his legs up to lay down once more on the bed, wincing at the pain that sprouted up from his leg.

"Now, if you'd be so kind... This hurting cowboy needs himself a small nap."

The Thanagarian said nothing as she stood up from her chair then left without another word, but Greg found himself okay with that. She had come in for something he couldn't give her. He had been stuck in here stewing in his own hate.

Maybe this small encounter would help them both start healing.

 **I really hope you all enjoyed it. It took me quite some time to write and my amazing editor, EmbraceSadness, a day or so to edit, so I really hope our efforts were worth it.**

 **Please review and tell me what y'all thought!**


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